


The Appraiser

by LotusFlair



Series: The Appraiser [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Original Character(s), Tattoos, The Usher Foundation, watcher's crown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 20:27:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20346223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LotusFlair/pseuds/LotusFlair
Summary: The Usher Foundation sends some help to the Magnus Institute.





	The Appraiser

“Hello. Is the Archivist in?” 

Basira looked up from her desk. She hadn’t heard any footsteps approaching and she knew the front doors were currently locked. It was Saturday and the archives was only open by appointment on the weekend, though she couldn’t recall any students or anyone from the general public entering the building in some time unless they were involved in _ spooky _ archives business. And yet here this cheerful American woman stood.

She was about average height with grey-blue eyes like the coming of a summer storm. Her head was shaved on the sides, but the brown hair on top was thick and wavy. It was long enough that she was able to pull it back and braid it past her shoulders. She appeared friendly, but not in the way most followers of the Fears were. Her smile was without malice or rage - genuine. The most abnormal trait Basira could outright see were the prominent tattoos that decorated the majority of her skin save for her face. The tattoos weren’t ordinary because of course they weren’t. They shifted and moved as if her skin was projecting a million tiny films simultaneously. They were fascinating to watch as they blended together and pulled apart in seemingly random patterns; a Rorschach test of pigment dripping in and out of sight. The act of observing the tattoos, however, changed their behavior as all images dropped away replaced by a multitude of eyes. The Eye manifested in ink.

The former detective was on her feet, knocking her chair over with the full force of her movement. No weapon was available, but she was sure she could make due with the stapler or the plethora of push pins and paperclips strewn about the place. 

“What are you?!”

She held out her hand. The eyes all blinked across her hand and arm. “I’m Charlotte Jane Cobb. CJ for short. The Usher Foundation sent me.”

“To do what?” CJ put her hand down, but the smile never left her eyes.

“Help. The Archivist is struggling. You’re _ all _ struggling, quite frankly. Luckily, it’s not too late. There’s still time to course correct.”

There was an earnestness to her voice. Followers of the Fears usually exerted their power by this point, but she was staying still and calm in the face of what was definitely an aggressor. It wasn’t enough to relax her entirely, but Basira was often the victim of her own curiosity. “You think you can fix this place? Fix us?”

CJ shrugged. “Not sure. But...a new set of eyes never hurts. Might see something he doesn’t. Actually…,” she paused. Closing her eyes, she took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. In that moment, Basira felt the power of the Beholding surround her. She’d always felt the watchful Eye on her since signing her life over to Elias, but never had she felt the true weight of knowledge as CJ pulled it towards her slight frame.

There was some tension in her face as she took it all in. Unlike Jon, she wasn’t consuming her surroundings like a pricey meal. She was searching, assessing what was flowing into her mind. The tension turned to determination and Basira understood that she was watching a woman gearing up for a fight as she exposed herself to every poisonous tool available. Her tattoos shivered as they drowned in information and after a mere two minutes she released her will. The archives slowly settled back to its normal level of eeriness. Another minute passed and Basira heard the door to Jon’s office open wildly as the Archivist roared into the hallway. 

“What the Hell was that?!”

CJ took another deep breath. The tattoos took on a soothing pattern along her arms and up her neck. She smiled tiredly. “That’ll be him then?”

Basira nodded, “Yeah.”

“Thanks. Be seeing you, Basira,” she said as she calmly walked past and met up with a fuming Archivist.

* * *

“What exactly did you _ do _ to my archives?” Jon demanded from the relative safety afforded from behind his desk. CJ paid it no mind as she quietly inspected the interior of the sparsely decorated office. She was searching, evaluating something Jon couldn’t pin down, though there was an edge of worry in her eyes. If he was being honest, Seeing CJ was difficult. Not that he was pushing, but normally information popped in before he realized it wasn’t already there. Then again, he’d been feeling poorly for weeks. A sporadic diet of stale statements coupled with the fear of Basira making good on her threat to “put him down” left him with few alternatives and a number of skipped meals. It was catching up to him. He could see it in his paler than usual features, the perpetual sheen of sweat, and his shaking hands. He could feel it in his aching bones, blinding headaches, and grumbling stomach. The lack of sleep wasn’t helping either since sleeping meant dreaming and Watching. Maybe it was all contributing to his lack of certainty regarding his current guest. 

“I needed to get an idea of what I’m working with,” she said while opening the little closet where Jon kept his coat. She frowned. “That’s what I do for the Usher Foundation. I’m the Appraiser and I was appraising the state of the archives...and its Archivist.”

Jon crossed his arms defensively. “And?”

Her stormy eyes caught him in a piercing, unyielding stare. “Where’s your Anchor, Jon?”

It wasn’t what Jon had been expecting to hear. He watched as anchors and other nautical symbols populated her skin. “Anchor? Wh-what does that have to do with anything?”

“You came out of the Buried, Jon. No one has ever - _ ever _ \- done that. The only way it would’ve been possible is with one Hell of an anchor. So where is he?”

“_ He _?”

“Jon, you can’t actually be this - what do you call it here? Thick? Yeah, you can’t be that thick.”

“I-I-I’m not! I-I used a-a rib. I had one of the Flesh pull it out himself.”

“Congratulations. You’re two ribs short of a display skeleton.” She shook her head, muttering under her breath as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “An Anchor is something that grounds you, right? Something you have a deep connection with and can guide you back despite your dimensional separation.”

“Yes, thank you! I’m well aware of the metaphysical concept of an anchor!” he snapped.

“Really? Because I don’t know that many ribs capable of the nuanced guidance necessary for leading an avatar of the Eye and a Hunter through the realm of an eldritch manifestation of fear.” The tattoos were vibrating with anger that tinged the ink red. Taking stock of her emotional state, CJ took a deep, deep breath and let it out slowly. “How long before you couldn’t feel your rib? How long before the connection was lost?”

“Not long. Almost immediately,” he said. It was barely above a whisper and tinged with shame.

“The body is...visceral. I’ll give you that, but an Anchor is an emotional connection. You have to _ want _ to find your way back and a rib can’t possibly be that significant to you. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been so keen to have it pulled out.”

“Alright. You’ve made your point.”

“No, I haven’t. How did you get out of the Buried? What brought you home?”

“The room was filled with tape recorders. They were playing statements I’d recorded,” he said. There was an air of distance in his voice, as if he were living the memory of it all over again. He shook his head, pulling himself out of it. “Are you suggesting I’m a narcissist?”

She sighed again. “_ Who _ placed the tape recorders in the room?”

There was a long silence as Jon fully took in where CJ had led him. Basira was gone. Melanie was still out of sorts. There was no chance of Peter Lukas helping him. That just left…

“Where’s Martin?” she asked.

“He’s currently serving as an assistant to the Lonely.”

“That doesn’t answer the question. Where’s Martin?”

The information came to him instantly. “The stacks. Third row. Lukas family donations collection.”

CJ gently pushed the door open. “Good. Let’s go get him.”

“Hang on! You’re part of the Beholding, why didn’t _ you _ know?”

She smiled sweetly. “Because he’s surrounded by the Lonely and they’re very good at obfuscation. Even I’m not that good. And he’s not _ my _ Anchor.”

There was the punch she’d been waiting for. Jon had been halfway out of his seat before he fell back. His eyes were wide and his mouth was trying to form words that his brain couldn’t quite articulate. 

“Martin...that-that’s why I-I -”

“Why you _ always _ know where he is. It’s why you sense his presence every time he passes your door. And it’s why you’re keyed in on his emotional state. Probably vice versa. Peter is doing his damnedest to keep you apart, but that’s the thing about Anchors. They have weight and they’re very good at displaying the strength of gravity.” She leaned against the open door frame. “That doesn’t mean the connection can’t be severed. The longer Martin stays with Lukas the worse it gets for the both of you.”

He looked up, concern for Martin radiating from his very being. “How?”

“You’re struggling, Jon. You’re stuck in the middle of this _ ridiculously _ complex, universe-shattering chaos and there is nothing and no one helping you keep your perspective. You’re starving yourself because you’re afraid of losing anymore of your humanity, but the less you eat the weaker you become. And the weaker you become, the less you’re paying attention to what’s happening around you. If you can’t See or Know, then you can’t prepare yourself for what’s coming and that’s exactly where Elias wants you - vulnerable, susceptible, compliant - ready for the Watcher’s Crown. The last thing he wants is for you to resist the Beholding’s ascension. But if you’re set on stopping the ritual, and I think you are, then you’re going to need your Anchor.”

“Why?” he asked cautiously.

“Because once that ritual is stopped, you’re going to die. And I don’t mean death in the typical sense. You will fade, Jon. You will fade until you don’t even know your own name; until the very idea of _ Jonathan Sims _ is an anomaly. There will only be a husk of flesh and bone and blood once known as the Archivist. And he will be discarded. Forgotten. Filed away as the Eye finds someone else to Watch.” It was harsh, but effective. In a matter of seconds Jon’s facial expressions shifted from disbelief to anger to fear.

“I-I don’t understand. Why are you even telling me this? Don’t - don’t you want the Watcher’s Crown to happen?” CJ shut the door. Obviously they wouldn’t be going anywhere soon. 

“‘I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it calls itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defense the only arms I allow myself to use -- silence, exile, and cunning,’” she said.

“James Joyce. _ Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man _,” he responded automatically. “Not exactly a one to one ratio, but I get it.”

“The Eye may have gotten its hooks into me, but that doesn’t mean I have to be grateful or subservient. Gertrude taught me that and I don’t plan on dishonoring her memory or mucking up her plans any time soon,” she said sternly.

“Gertrude...why am I not surprised?” The very act of thinking about Gertrude and her decades-long plans to thwart all of the Fears spiked a fierce pain in Jon’s head. Somewhere in the archives she’d left behind her final instructions, but she’d apparently hid them too well. Straight answers had become a pipe dream since he became the Archivist and Jon was so very tired of cutting through lies and enigmas. 

She couldn't ignore Jon’s physical state. With a heavy sigh, CJ moved into the chair opposite Jon. A tape recorder was already there. It had been running since she entered the office. There was likely one sitting near Basira when she arrived. She could feel the archives waiting, poised like a tiger in anticipation.

“You’re looking pale, Archivist. Maybe a pick-me-up is in order.” She gestured to the tape recorder. “When you’re ready.”

Jon took a moment to compose himself. He’d abandoned his glasses long ago, but he sat up straight and, with shaking hands, adjusted his shirt collar. It did little to wipe away the anxiety creeping into the corners of his eyes. He took a deep, deep, deep breath.

“Statement of Charlotte Jane Cobb, Appraiser for the Usher Foundation. Washington, DC. Statement taken direct from subject regarding her connection to the Eye, the Beholding, the Ceaseless Watcher. Recorded by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Statement begins…”

His eyes motioned for her to begin. She held off, letting the tape run. The silence was unnerving, but CJ had years of practice to improve her poker face. It wasn’t long before she could hear the static building along with Jon’s discomfort and hunger. Finally, she began.

"I was born into a small family in Philadelphia. Just me, Mom, Dad, and my dog Walton. They were artists - Dad a failing musician and Mom a struggling painter who worked part time at a tattoo parlor downtown. I spent a lot of time in that shop. Dad’s gigs came up sporadically, so he wasn’t much of a willing participant in my upbringing, which left spending time with Mom in her studio and among the tattooed masses. Lucky for me, Squid’s Ink was across the street from Malocchio’s Rare & Used Bookstore. Showing some sympathy for my situation, and my boredom, Mr. Malocchio took it upon himself to bring a stack of books for me to read. They were a paltry selection. Mostly picture books with large print meant for toddlers. He assumed that a child wouldn’t have the attention span to get through thick, weighty tomes that smelled like evergreen and settling dust. When I brought them back and handed him a list of books I _ wanted _ to read he finally understood. His store contained the finest vintages and I had a very discerning palate. 

With that unfortunate first impression behind us we came to an agreement and I returned to the tattoo parlor with a fresh stack perfectly curated to my tastes. And that was my life for a long time. I never complained about spending time at the shop because there would always be a new selection of books waiting for me, ready to be devoured.

That - that’s such a weird thing to say, isn’t it? Appropriate, but...weird. I _ was _ hungry. My mind ached for words. My fingers twitched in anticipation when they weren’t turning the well-worn pages. I would absently lick my ink-smudged fingers, savoring the taste. I even found myself gnawing on the front board from time to time. It made me wonder what would happen if I were to actually eat a book. Would I find nutrition in the fibrous pulp? Would the ink’s flavor alternate based on words consumed? Did the word “mushroom” taste like mushrooms? Would I digest the knowledge within or would it cause me heartburn? The questions kept me up at night and I’d find myself re-reading the books in my small collection at home just to keep my mind occupied. But every day I arrived at the parlor, tired and famished, I’d find Mr. Malocchio’s daily specials and satiate my churning stomach.

I was just shy of my eighteenth birthday when I encountered my first Leitner. Or was it? Maybe one of them got hold of me earlier and I was just too busy feeding myself to notice. I took the bus from school to the shop and beelined for the back office where the books were waiting to be sampled. I picked at random, a translation of a Masonic _ Book of the Dead _ , when a thin booklet dropped from the pages. It reminded me of the pamphlets produced during the Revolutionary War. I live in Philadelphia, so it’s hard _ not _to know what anything related to the Founding Fathers looked like when every field trip was either to “this museum commemorating the revolution” or “that battlefield where Washington fought valiantly.” It’s ingrained into us. Only this pamphlet, with its rough ink and textured pages, looked like it had been freshly printed and transported across time specifically to fall into my lap. Given the things I know now, I haven’t quite ruled it out.

I remember running my fingers over the cover. The title, _ On the Tattows of Polynesia and the Pacifick Islands _ , showed the diagram of a male figure covered head to toe in tattoos. No doubt it was an imperialist examination of a foreign culture by some old, dead, white man, but as I began to flip through the pages they became more detailed about the meaning of the symbols and the sacred ideology behind tattooing. The booklet was small, but I never ran out of pages. The unnamed author continued to write, the printed words becoming more and more frantic until I swear it looked like I was reading the ranting journal of a mad man dictated into typeface. I felt it. Felt their desperation to tell me why this art form was worthy and _ necessary _ to adorn my skin. Their voice, heavy and powerful, embedded itself in my mind and I knew - _ I knew _ \- what I had to do.

It smelled like freshly baked bread with just a sliver of butter. When I tore the first pages and stuffed them into my mouth all I tasted was the sweet delight of chocolate ice cream. Then a bowl of spaghetti. Then a perfectly cooked steak. Then pancakes dripping with maple syrup. I ate them all, relishing a feast of words and sensations. I don’t remember when the meal ended. I just remember sitting on the office floor as the last remnants of a lobster bisque left my tongue. I’d eaten the whole thing...a thousand lifetimes of meals...and I wasn’t even full.

Then I was doubled over in pain. It wasn’t my stomach, but my skin. It burned and pinched like tiny needles were pricking me over and over again. I heard the overwhelming sound of tattoo guns filling my ears, their motors vibrating against my arms, legs, torso...everywhere. It merged with the sounds of drums and chanting. I was enthralled and terrified as the cacophony seeped into every fiber of my being. I managed to open my eyes and for a moment I thought I saw all the blood in my body splayed across the floor as apparitions seared and prodded their marks into my flesh. I screamed and the world went black.

I woke up on the floor. I couldn’t say how long I’d been there. Minutes? Hours? Days? Was I dead? My body ached, my stomach rumbled with hunger. I felt like an exposed wound, but I didn’t want to look at my surroundings. I was too afraid to see what was left of myself. When I finally did, nothing looked wrong. There was no blood, no sickly apparitions. Just me and a bare floor. Then the first tattoo bubbled to the surface of my skin like ink plunging through water. Just one image. An eye. The Eye. Then another appeared. And another. And another until every inch of my body was covered in blinking eyes. I scrambled back against the wall and screamed. I was hurt...scared, but no one came to comfort me. I was afraid and alone and I could feel it _ Watching _me.

But then I felt something else. I knew the purpose of the booklet as easily as I new how to breathe. Iconography...symbolism...protection...power, they all came to me in an instant. And I had a name, Jurgen Leitner. If I found his name again, I knew what would happen. I blinked and found myself in Mr. Malocchio’s shop. It was night and there was no one to stop me. I followed the scent - curried lamb - and found another Leitner. By the time the shop opened the next morning I’d consumed nearly a dozen Leitners, but my hunger remained.

Thus began the next stage of my life. I could tell just by looking at a piece of writing whether it would feed me - feed the Eye - or if it was empty calories. Leitners were the equivalent of a six course meal at a five-star Michelin restaurant, but they became a rare delicacy as I moved about the country. I wasn’t sure of my purpose, but I knew I had to keep feeding. I broke into bookstores for a quick snack. I stalked auction houses just to get a whiff of pepper and lemon from the first editions. I hid in a libraries so I could have the run of the place and eat at my leisure. The more I ate, the more knowledge I acquired. My powers expanded to the point where I could stand in the lobby of a building and Know everything about it and the people inside. A passing glance sent millions of minute details into my mind. It was overwhelming and beautiful and frightening. I had everything...but I had nothing. And it was never enough. 

But one day, after eating another Leitner - _ The Bloodhunter’s Epiphany _ \- I began to wonder Why? I had been acting on instinct for so long that a simple question paralyzed me for days. I Knew so much, but I didn’t _ understand _. Why did I have all of this knowledge? Who was it for? What would happen if I stopped? I experimented, starved myself for weeks just to see if I could still function. I couldn’t and I found that the less I ate, the stronger I felt the Eye upon me. In my most desperate moments of starvation, I broke into a house because I smelled the intoxicating aroma of dumplings in a private study. I wasn’t subtle or particularly stealthy and I remember someone coming into the room, but after that...I blinked and I was on the street, my belly full and streaks of something warm and red on my shirt and across my face that tasted like iron.

I switched tactics and started “dieting.” Just enough to keep the Ceaseless Watcher off my back, but I was no closer to getting answers to the multitude of questions. So I went to the one place I Knew would provide the resources to find those answers. I went to the Usher Foundation. I became their Appraiser, traveling the world to determine the state of, well, literally anything affected by the greater powers. They, in turn, kept me healthy with a steady stream of words to consume. I ate well and I eventually had the time and sense of mind available to expand and hone my powers. I discovered that I could curate my consumption. The right pages from the right books afforded me solace from the Beholding and Knowledge it and the other Fears didn’t want me to have. I also learned how to protect myself. I could hide from its gaze. I could shift the Eye’s focus long enough to escape notice...and I could feed it false information so it could never rely on me for a decent meal.”

It wasn’t really an ending and Jon didn’t feel as full as he usually did from a statement given directly from a living, breathing person. He felt sick...sicker. He waited, hoping - practically pleading - for her to continue. She motioned with her head that she was done. Jon leaned in and said, “Statement ends.”

“You look disappointed,” she said.

“Did you…? You did that on purpose.”

“Sorry, I might've gotten carried away,” she said half-heartedly. “Unfortunately, that means you have to bear the brunt of it.”

“How-how did you...?”

“Secrets are a commodity in our circle, Jon. Lies are protection. They can’t be too big though. It has to be basic stuff...like letting you believe my favorite color is blue when it’s actually red.”

“Is it red?”

“No, but it’s a small victory for unreliable narrators everywhere that you can’t find it easily.”

Jon sighed, rubbing his forehead furiously. “How can you be aligned with the Eye and yet so aggressively working against it?” She could hear the underlying question, the desperation in his voice. _ Why are you allowed to be defiant while I suffer? How can you resist while I can’t? _

“The Usher Foundation is your baby sister. The Eye keeps the majority of its focus on the Magnus Institute and the Archivist. It relies on you. It feeds through you...or on you. I’m a tiny cog. You’re the big wheel turning the machine,” she said matter-of-factly.

Jon perked up. “But tiny cogs can break the machine - stop it from working altogether!”

Cogs and machine parts rose to the surface of her skin practically singing in enthusiasm. “That is the smartest thing you’ve said since we met!”

The glare he gave her was probably legendary, but there wasn’t time to be perturbed. He leaned forward, tenting his fingers. “Do you actually know anything about the Watcher’s Crown?”

“I know some things. I know the Fears are scrambling to complete what rituals they can. _ If _ they can. But it’s making them sloppy. Something’s coming and they’re...afraid. It’s likely one of the many reasons Elias killed Gertrude,” she said.

“She didn’t want to complete the Watcher’s Crown,” Jon said. His voice was hoarse, choking on the knowledge of what Gertrude had done in her final years.

“Elias needed someone who could step in and adapt quickly, but not so quickly that they could fully understand what was happening until it was too late,” she said. “Gertrude had fifty years. You’ve had three. And to be honest...you’ve done _ really _well under the circumstances.”

“It doesn’t feel like it. I don’t know who to trust and the people I thought I could rely on just look at me like I’m...a monster. And I am. I’m the monster who makes people relive their trauma so I can feast on their pain and feed an All-Seeing Eye,” he said, sinking further into the chair. “I should’ve died for all the good I’m doing now. Every choice feels like the wrong one. I don’t even know if I’m actually making choices anymore or if I’m just a puppeted feeding tube.”

“Still worried about the Web’s influence?”

“It wouldn’t be out of character for them to tell me what I want to hear.”

“Do you want me to check you over? Weed out any other influences?”

He sat up. “You can do that?”

“Sure. Lean forward. Let me take a look,” she said. Jon followed her directions, leaning forward so she could touch his face across the desk. “Okay, now roll your eyes left...right...open your mouth and say, ‘ahhhh.’”

“Ahhhh,” he mimicked. 

“How do you feel about triangles?” she asked.

Jon really didn’t know how to answer that question. “Um...fine, I guess?”

“Interesting,” she said. CJ squished his cheeks, manipulating his face while she kept her stare firm and studious. After she tickled the inside of his ears he’d had enough. 

“You can’t check for influences, can you?”

“Nope, but I wanted to see how long I could get away with this before you caught on.”

Jon couldn’t help the laugh that escaped his lips. It felt good.

“Careful now, Jon, you might give away that you’re human with all that laughing and smiling you’re doing,” she chided.

“It doesn’t bother you?” he asked soberly. “Not being completely human?”

She sat with the question for a moment. Question marks popped in and out until one settled in the center of her forehead, dripping away in an instant. “‘It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another.’”

“Mary Shelley. _ Frankenstein _. Of all the books...”

“I know it by heart, but I still read it every couple of months to remind myself that monsters aren’t as black and white as we’d like them to be. We were shaped into what we are now, but we also made choices that brought us here. We’re still making choices, Jon. Even the little ones count,” she said. CJ reached across, taking his hand with a tight squeeze. “Sometimes those are the most important.”

He nodded, blinking back a thin layer of moisture. “Thank you. It’s nice to be able to talk to someone about this without worrying if they’ll threaten me, burn me, punch me, or flat out try to kill me.”

“What’re sister institutions for?”

He considered her words. “About that...why come now? What’s the Usher Foundation’s stake in this?” he asked.

“I was going to invite you when I sensed you in the states, but then you got kidnapped by Julia and Trevor and I didn’t want to bring any attention to them if I could help it,” she explained. 

“Do they work for…?”

“No, but they’re a great source of information and they’re not afraid to get their hands dirty. My director would prefer to throw them into the deepest, darkest hole available, but they get results,” she said. “To actually answer your question, we were taking an observational backseat. We weren’t sure what Elias was planning after Gertrude died. You were a new player even if you didn’t realize you were in the game.”

“A pawn,” he seethed.

“At first. Now I’d venture you’re more like a rook. Maybe a bishop,” she said, winking. Another laugh from Jon. 

“And you?” he asked.

“Oh I’m a knight,” she said. “Unless the game is actually Parcheesi. Then we’re all screwed.”

It was a belly laugh this time that, even to CJ, sounded like Jon was out of practice until it transformed into a coughing fit that had Jon doubled over. She was by his side in a second, shock and panic coloring her face.

“Jon?! Jon, what’s wrong? Talk to me,” she shouted. Another intense cough sent him barreling into her arms. She shifted, using his momentum to guide him to the floor. He was ghoulishly pale and sweating profusely. His eyes rolled around like they couldn’t focus; he closed them to hide from the light. His breath came in short, sharp gasps but she could hear him trying to speak.

“...I don’t - don’t feel s-so - so well…”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“...”

“Jon?”

“...”

“JON?!”

“...a-a few weeks...I think…”

“Weeks? Jesus, Jon, no wonder you look like shit,” she said, moving him onto his back. Pulling off her jacket, she crumpled it up under his head. Then she grabbed a water bottle and tilted his head back, pouring enough for small sips. 

He managed a small chuckle, barely. “I-I’m sure your s-sour s-statement did-didn’t help.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, “but this is ridiculous.” 

Jon felt himself slipping, waves of exhaustion and hunger pulling him lower… lower…under. He almost didn’t hear CJ talking into her phone. Her voice was laced with calm and urgency. Jon took comfort in this. He hadn’t felt concern for his well being expressed in some time. 

“Madeline...yeah, I know it’s three in the morning. I’m sorry, but I need you to go ahead and audit the Magnus Institute. All the bells and whistles. Complete shut down. I’ll call Daveed and Val and let them know,” she said. A long pause as he assumed Madeline was speaking, possibly yelling at her. “Yes, you’ll all be sleep deprived. What else is new? I was in Amsterdam yesterday. No, I’m not bragging! I’m trying to tell you…”

Listening to her bickering with her coworker, Jon let himself sink into the abyss with one thought on his mind. One word. One name.

“Martin…”

* * *

It was easy to lean into the blanket of isolation that came with working for the Lonely. Martin found he adapted well to the cold fog that followed him, obscured from the general awareness of anyone working at the institute or in the archives. He was practically a ghost...and yet he still felt connected even if it was muted and fuzzy. He could hear laughter and arguing and the quiet that comes with camaraderie emanating from every corridor and office. It was just enough to feel jealous and angry at everyone not working for Peter Lukas. In those brief moments, he felt the strongest pull to return to the archives. He wanted to take it all back until the cold rolled in and reminded him of his choice. It would work out in the end. It had to. But no amount of hiding stopped the feelings of guilt. His reasoning was solid, but that didn’t stop him from longing to be surrounded by his friends...and Jon. All they had was each other. Did they still? Would they have such a thing when all the rituals were stopped and plans fulfilled? Would any of them survive? 

It was a testament to how focused the Forsaken made him that he didn’t notice the warmth that had seeped into his body. The cold made wearing sweaters a necessity regardless of the weather outside, but Martin found himself very aware of how much sweat he’d managed to accumulate in a short amount of time. The fog had lifted as well and for the first time in months he felt solid, present. He was more aware of his feet standing on the ground and the feel of the cardboard box in his hands. The sensations that had been numbed by the Lonely were real again and in that moment Martin pushed it all aside in favor of panic.

_ What went wrong? _

_ Is everyone okay? _

_ Where’s Jon? _

_ Was Jon okay? _

_ Were they under attack? _

_ Who was it this time? The Desolation? The Web? The Slaughter? All of them? _

_ Did Peter abandon their deal? _

_ Where’s Jon? _

_ Should I go find him? _

_ Does he need help? _

_ Is he dead? _

_ Was all of this for nothing? _

“..._ Martin _…”

He heard his name. It was a whisper, but he knew Jon’s voice. He sounded so distant, but instinct pulled him forward until he was all but running out of the stacks to find him. Muscle memory took him up the three flights of stairs to the ground floor, past the reading room, past the kitchen and employee lounge. All of the office doors were closed, but he heard raised voices as he approached his destination. Rounding the corner, he stopped abruptly at the sight of Basira arguing with a tattooed woman he didn’t know. They were roughly the same height and equally as intense in their staring contest. Martin quickly noted the tattoos dancing across her skin, vibrant red flames flowing down her arms and up her neck.

“What did you do to him?” Basira exclaimed. 

“A stiff wind could have knocked him over at this point,” said the stranger. “I came here to help him, which is more than any of _ you _have been doing.”

“What’re you on about?”

“He’s _ starving _, Basira. He’s starving and he’s scared and he’s exhausted and none of you are doing anything,” she said pointedly. 

“What d’you want me to do, then? Drag some people in for him to suck out their brains? Subject innocent people to more trauma? Just so Jon can gorge himself on pain and suffering? No,” Basira countered. “I won’t do it.”

“Okay, that attitude is uncalled for. You want to be upset with the situation? Fine, be upset, but grow up,” she said. “You don’t get the benefit of moral superiority when literally everyone around you has been affected or outright changed by these beings. Melanie nearly fell to the Slaughter. Daisy is a flat out Hunter. And Martin is standing right behind you listening into this conversation.”

Basira turned and, for the first time in months, laid eyes on Martin Blackwood. He involuntarily squeaked in surprise. Embarrassed, but recovering, he gave a small wave. “Hi, Basira.”

“Martin, what are you--?”

He stepped towards her. “I - I thought...that is, I was in the stacks and - and I heard… What I mean is...Uggh! I was in the stacks. The Lonely...left. I heard Jon say my name. I came to see Jon. What is wrong with Jon? And who’re you?” 

CJ smiled curtly. “CJ Cobb. Usher Foundation. Here to keep your Archivist alive.”

“Is he okay? You said he’s starving?”

“He hasn’t had a fresh statement in weeks and he’s barely subsisting on recording the written ones,” CJ explained.

“Which means a lot of people won’t be seeing a many-eyed monster watching them relive one of the worst moments of their life,” Basira said.

“It’s so easy for you to judge, isn’t it? He needs to eat and he can’t completely control the origin of the meal,” CJ said. “Do you think he likes it? Do you think any of us like that we have to hurt people to live?”

“Daisy’s managing,” Basira said through gritted teeth.

“Trust me, she isn’t,” CJ said. “She’s just hiding it because apparently you like playing fast and loose with threats of murder if an avatar attempts to do the bare minimum of survival.”

“Basira? You - you threatened him? I asked you to _ talk _to him!” Martin shouted.

“You didn’t _ ask _me anything, Martin. You left a note and a tape,” Basira said. “And then we went to Hilltop Road so the spiders could have some fun with us. He asked about you. How you were. If you looked okay. And I had nothing for him.”

“I-I’m doing this to help all of you. I - Peter is keeping you safe,” he insisted.

“Do we look safe?!” Basira shouted. “You left us! You left us with Jon and you left Jon with us. And now he’s forcing statements out of people, he may or may not be a puppet of the Web, and we have no idea how to move forward!”

“How - how is any of that _ my _fault?” Martin asked.

“You’re the only one who knows him - who _ knew _him before everything changed. He listens to you. You keep him in check. You’re his...his…” Basira struggled to find the word. CJ stepped in.

“You’re his Anchor, Martin,” she said gently. “In more ways than one.”

It was too much. Too much, too quickly. He’d gone from literal isolation to the overwhelming reality created by his choices. His heart was beating louder and louder in his ears. His feet and arms felt tingly. Was he breathing? He wasn’t sure. For a second he thought the fog of the Lonely had returned, but then he felt the floor meet his backside and the two women filled his vision with worried faces.

“Martin? Martin, I need you to breathe, okay? In. Out. Innnnn. Outttttt,” CJ said. Martin nodded quickly, following her instructions. Breathe in. Breathe out. Jon needed him - breathe in. He had to be strong - breathe out. This deal wasn’t worth it - breath in. They needed a new plan - breathe out. Jon needed him - breathe in. He needed Jon - breathe out. 

Five minutes passed before Martin felt relatively normal. Basira handed him a bottle of water and a bag of crisps from the kitchen. He drank greedily; the crisps were salty and delicious on his tongue. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed food like this. The Lonely numbed everything, even the taste of cheap snacks. 

“Okay, then?” Basira asked.

He nodded, then shook his head. “Not really. I’m sorry, Basira. I’m sorry I left.”

“It - it’s alright, Martin,” she said as she uncomfortably pat his back.

“No. It isn’t. It hasn’t been right for a while,” he said adamantly. He looked up at CJ. “But I can fix it?”

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You can try. That’s what counts.”

* * *

They’d brought up one of the cots from the tunnels for Jon to lay on. It was a familiar sight to Martin. Those first three months of Jon’s coma were hard. Every day he visited hoping that the living mind within the dead body would wake up and every day he went home depressed and angry. They’d won, hadn’t they? Why did it feel like they’d lost so much more? The plan had worked, but Martin couldn’t have predicted the collateral damage. It didn’t stop the guilt pouring into his dreams, playing through the worst possible outcomes of what was already the stuff of nightmares. He watched Tim and Jon die over and over again and all he could do was stand there. Occasionally, Elias’s vindictive laugh would echo across the dreamscape and Martin would wake with a loud cry as the torturous thoughts inserted by his former employer invaded once again.

Then his mother died and the Flesh attacked. The deal with Peter was the reprieve he needed. He walked away and no one seemed to care. The weight was gone for a while and in its absence he felt that an adequate existence could be achieved through paperwork and administrative action. Martin Blackwood didn’t need to see or care about anyone to do his job.

And then Jon woke up.

Martin pushed a chair close to the cot. Unlike before, he could see Jon’s chest rise and fall. He was alive and breathing and he looked a mess. None of them were qualified to know how to handle an avatar’s feeding habits, but looking at the state of Jonathan Sims showed Martin how horribly he was suffering. The conversation with Daisy replayed in his head - survivor’s guilt, overcompensation, self-loathing - all of it was clear and present in the sickly looking man curled up on a dingy cot.

It occurred to Martin that there wasn’t a tape recorder present. They’d become so ubiquitous to the archives it seemed wrong for them not to appear around the Archivist. It was likely the same reason the Lonely’s influence had lifted and probably had something to do with CJ’s sudden arrival. Regardless, Martin didn’t care if there was a recording or not. He had something to say.

“Statement of Martin Blackwood, explaining his...feelings towards Jonathan Sims, the Archivist,” he said. He paused, watching Jon carefully. If there was any change it wasn’t noticeable. Given Jon’s physical and emotional state there were no guarantees talking to him would have any effect. He was going to have to work for this and that was just typical of their relationship. “Statement begins…

“I...I love you, Jon… 

I assume you listened to my ‘conversation' with Elias while you all were stopping the Stranger. He called it a crush. Maybe it was, but...it’s been much more for a while. I genuinely thought after you came back from saving the world that we might have a chance to talk. Really talk, ya know? I didn’t - don’t - expect anything from you. Honestly, I didn’t think you liked me for the longest time. You’re very kind, though, when you don’t realize it. You hide a lot of yourself, which makes sense in retrospect. But I saw you, Jon. I saw someone trying to prove himself after being thrown into the lion’s den. I saw curiosity when others would have preferred ignorance. I saw bravery and fear acting in tandem. You don’t even realize how stupidly amazing you are…!

But. You. Died...sort of. I could mourn Tim. I think I’m still mourning some version of Sasha. But you...you were gone but not really. I was just sat by your bedside praying for you to wake up or die completely and you did neither. And I waited until I couldn’t anymore. 

It was easier to walk away when Peter offered to help. I could focus on something, maybe even save someone from one of these things in my own way. I’m not the bravest of us, not by a long shot, but I thought I could help...without getting too attached. I wanted to stop caring. I wanted to stop thinking about everything I’d lost. I wanted to stop hoping you’d come back. But you did anyway. You just couldn’t make it easy. I was ready to drift away and you pulled me back.

CJ said I’m your Anchor, but what if it’s the other way around? Maybe you’re _ my _ Anchor. When you told me you missed me I felt something tugging at my chest like an invisible thread. It was pulling me towards _ you _and it took everything in me not to follow you back to the archives. When we separated it wasn’t as strong, but it lingered. I felt it when you went into that coffin to save Daisy. I still feel it.

I know something’s coming. Whether it’s the Extinction or the Watcher’s Crown or some other impossible thing, being separated isn’t working. We’re stronger together and I’m sorry I couldn’t see that. That’s your department, I suppose. I just - I just thought I could handle it, but... I’m in way over my head, aren’t I?”

“...That seems...to be...going around these...days.”

“Jon!”

“Hello...Martin.”

“How’re you feeling?” he asked. Jon slowly eased into a sitting position.

“As you can see I’m fi-” The overeager archivist tried to stand. His legs gave out immediately, but he didn’t hit the floor. He found himself in Martin Blackwood’s arms staring into his brown eyes. “...I’m fine.”

Martin shook his head. “No, you’re not. None of us are.”

“At least I’m in good company,” Jon said. His voice was flat leaving Martin to wonder whether he’d meant it as a joke or if the beleaguered archivist was serious. Martin helped him back into a sitting position on the cot but he made no move to leave Jon’s side. They sat in nervous silence. Jon focused on breathing as calmly as possible through the lingering dizziness after passing out. Martin fidgeted, his leg bouncing and his fingers twisting together just for something to do.

“How much did you hear?” Martin finally asked. He stared at his agitated fingers, afraid to look at the other man and see the answer plain on his face. Jon reached over and took his hand, lacing their fingers together before squeezing tightly.

“Everything,” he said. His hushed tone echoed in the silence surrounding them. “From the moment I heard you outside the door.”

“Why didn’t you - ?”

“I was afraid you’d leave if I was awake. I haven’t seen you for months and I...I wanted you to stay,” he said. “Though, for the life of me, I don’t know how you could possibly love a monster.”

“Stop it, Jon,” Martin said, “you’re not a monster.”

“I think the people I compelled to tell me their statements would strongly disagree,” Jon responded. “As would Melanie, Georgie, and Basira.”

Frustrated, Martin squeezed their hands even tighter. “Fine. You’re a monster. Now what? What do you want to do about it?”

“I don’t know what I can do! If I eat, I lose whatever’s left of my humanity. If I don’t eat, then I starve and the Eye watches me suffer while I fade away. I don’t even know if I can stop without being compelled to do so regardless of my cognizance.” He said. “I lose either way, Martin.”

“You haven’t lost _ me _,” Martin insisted. “And CJ said she’s here to help, so let her help. The others will come around. And if they don’t, we let them go. None of us are innocent anymore, Jon. We’ve made our choices and I choose to stand by you. I’m just sorry it took so long for us to get here.”

Jon was on the verge of tears, his body shaking with anxiety and relief. They leaned into each other, foreheads touching. For the first time in a long time they both felt some semblance of peace.

“Martin…”

“Yes?”

“I’m not the only one who doesn’t realize how stupidly amazing he is…”

* * *

Jon was uncomfortable when he woke up again. The cot barely supported him and the lack of padding made his back ache. Laying on his side cut off circulation to his arm acting as his pillow, which gave him a headache from the odd angle his neck lay on his arm. He suddenly had fond memories of sleeping on the ship to Ny-Ålesund. It was probably the best sleep he’d gotten in the last three years and he longed for the rhythmic rise and fall of the waves rocking him into oblivion. He wasn’t alone. CJ sat at his desk, her feet propped up as she read from a beaten up paperback of _ Frankenstein _. 

“Where’s Martin?” he asked sleepily.

“Making tea and coffee. I think he also said something about tracking down some kind of food from an emergency stash,” she said never looking away from the book. Jon sat up. The dizziness passed. “You hungry?”

“I could eat,” he said. Dog-earing the page she was on, CJ pulled out a large folder and placed it on the desk.

“New meal plan. You’re eating to survive, Jon, not to savor. One statement every three to four hours. No cheating,” she said. “Also, try to consume actual food between statements. Your body still functions the same...more or less. Deal?”

“I have some questions,” Jon started.

“I know,” she said.

“What exactly did you do here? I heard you say something about...an audit? Is that why I don’t feel so...connected to the Eye right now?” he asked.

She tapped her nose and pointed at him. “It’s a temporary solution, but our IT group figured out how to scramble the signal.”

“You have an IT group?”

She shrugged. “IT group, people practiced in ancient rituals that block our connection to the demi-planes of evil, it’s all the same thing when you think about it. It’s concentrated on the Institute and it’ll last for about a week. None of the other avatars and zealots can get to you, Elias can’t peek in, and Peter is effectively shut out. I'm sure they're thoroughly freaked out and probably have been since I arrived. But that should give you some time to recover, maybe do a little digging around the archives.”

“And once the week is up?” 

“Chaos. Retaliation. The usual around here I’d guess?”

“Most likely…”

“Look out for Martin, though, okay? The Lonely is a hard one to fight,” she said. Jon didn’t have to Know to understand she’d had experience with this kind of battle.

“You lost someone?” he asked.

Swallowing hard, she nodded. “My best friend. Or what passes for a best friend in our world. I held on as tightly as I could, but they...they still slipped away.”

Jon pushed a little further. “Were they your Anchor?”

“Nice try, Jon, but no. They weren’t my Anchor,” she said. “That would be Daveed, one of the IT group/ritual experts. He, um...yeah.”

“I have no idea if you’re lying to me or not,” Jon said.

She smiled smugly. “Well, in this case, I’m doing you a solid. Maybe I'll introduce you some time."

"If we're still here, I'd like that," he said.

She could see the doubt written across his face. Most of it was years of built up trauma, but she knew she'd contributed some of it. "Most of what I’ve told you is true. Lying makes for a good strategy when you use it at the right time.”

“Could you teach me? Or...show me what to look for?” Jon asked. She nodded.

“I can try. We have a week to buff you up. You’ve got one Hell of a fight coming.”

He smiled, determined. “When do we start?”


End file.
